


Losing

by bettysugars_writes



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Mild Smut, Self Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25777246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettysugars_writes/pseuds/bettysugars_writes
Summary: a depressing bughead one-shot through jughead’s pov as betty spirals into depression
Relationships: Jughead Jones / Betty Cooper
Kudos: 22





	Losing

I felt her skin succumb to chills as soon as I place my lips on her neck. My hands find her waist and her core relaxes, feathering against mine. As I continue trailing over her collarbones, the soft waves of her hair tickle my jaw. She sighs softly and I read her body; without hesitation I turn her to face me so I can lift her up. Her normal taste of strawberry milkshakes is absent. Her hips don’t roll and hang completely static, albeit against me. Uncertainty feeds on me as we travel to the bedroom. After ridding myself of any clothing except my boxers and going for her sweater, she stops me. The airy drum of her fingertips on my knuckles directs me to stop. She trembles, her eyes apologetic and inscrutable, and our night ends with a gentle kiss full of understanding.

Betty is gone in the morning. My bedsheets still smell like vanilla, but a thickness to it makes it seem like she’s compensating for something. Less of an odor, more of an insecurity.

First came school. Her hands never left her desk and our teachers let her fade into the background. They droned on as she droned off, invisible as a cobweb. A few days following the descent of her participation in class, I saw her in the Blue and Gold. She was sitting alone by the large window in the back, casting shadows on the span of the room. I recall the time we made out on that counter, pure passion and breathless moans. She was crying. Her shoulders shook jarringly, in a way that looked repressed but uncontrollable. I didn’t linger. Something told me that I shouldn’t have disturbed her that moment.

Next came eating. Her limbs grew ghostly pale in some places, thinning as well. Anyone else wouldn’t have noticed, although I knew Betty’s body blind and that he sweaters never sagged as they did then. I tried to explain my worries to her. She would only kiss me, long and stiffly, and promise that she wasn’t hungry. I reached out to Veronica and Archie, Cheryl and Toni, Kevin, and even Reggie, expressing my concern. They reciprocated, of course. But nothing they did ever worked. 

Then came Saturday. I brought her a milkshake from Pop’s to go with mine, but she rejected it. My pushes were futile. I sat down next to her on her bed, perfectly made and smelling like springtime, fabric softener, and the very essence of Betty-vanilla. Vanilla that grew louder and more headache-inducing by the day. I wrapped her dainty hands into my own calloused ones, and raised them to my mouth. No sooner than when I had touched my lips did I see what her ridden-up shirt was hiding. Cuts. Scars. Red and white lines that balmy moisturizer could never hide. Pain sealed into skin by thin scabs. Hurt.

When I confronted her, she didn’t cry. Her expression was threadbare of emotion. She looked numb. And after I kissed her, softly, all I felt of her was numb. 

Finally, Sunday morning broke the bleak night. Breathing in vanilla did no justice to the fact that my arms were holding nobody. My vision tunneled as last night came back to me, and my heart hollowed, useless, as I tried to gather strength to get up. There was a tear stain on her pillowcase. Her curtains were slashed open on either side or the window. The window was closed, but evidence was still unsealed and prominent. Self-portrait coated her room. Whatever energy that had once sparked in the room had fizzled and died. It reigned truth.

They never found her body. 

Sometimes I dream about her. Sometimes I could see her around corners. The strawberries that she would taste like, I can still savor. The tiny imprints her lacy underwear would make into her skin, I can still see. The sky grew a little darker that day, when she finally let go of the cusp. Whatever reasoning that cusp held. Maybe it was me. 

The bags under my eyes grow bigger as I slack on sleeping. My body and empty soul resonates with what losing really means.

I lost.

_fin


End file.
